The Rest of the Fanfic
by Qoheleth
Summary: The untold stories of various prominent fictional characters, as they might have sounded on Paul Harvey's "The Rest of the Story". May be moved to the Crossovers subcategory, depending on whether I come up with any such stories about non-HP characters.
1. Prophet of Doom

**Introduction: **Paul Harvey, for those of you who never had the good fortune to hear him on the radio, was an American newscaster (that's his picture up at the top of the page there, courtesy of Godreports-dot-com) who was best known for the series of historical essays that he broadcast under the general title of "The Rest of the Story". He would relate an anecdote about some distinguished historical figure, identifying him or her only in the vaguest of terms ("Pierre", for instance, or "the farmer"). Only at the very end would he reveal whom he was talking about, after which he would wrap things up with his classic tag line, "Now you know the rest of the story."

What this anthology contains, therefore, is a series of possible histories for various fictional characters, told in the style that Paul Harvey made famous. The first two have previously been posted in the Harry Potter subcategory (the first, in fact, was the first story I ever posted on this site), but those that follow them could come from any fandom. But I promise you that all of these are the untold stories of characters you know, from books/TV series/etc. that boast substantial fandoms on this site. (Which doesn't mean, of course, that you'll necessarily recognize them right away.)

**General disclaimer: **None of the fandoms that will be drawn upon in this series are based on material written by me. Nor am I Paul Harvey (who is dead now, anyway).

* * *

Malachy Gosselin, Professor of Divination at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, came bursting into the Headmaster's office without so much as a how-do-you-do.

The Headmaster, mildly perturbed, glanced up from his papers and asked if the Professor had an ethical problem with using the knocker. Professor Gosselin replied that he didn't, but that since this was a matter of the greatest urgency, perhaps the Headmaster would excuse the impropriety.

The Headmaster, who was well accustomed to Professor Gosselin's matters of great urgency, nodded impatiently and motioned for him to explain.

Professor Gosselin said that he had been gazing into his crystal, as he was accustomed to do every Saturday afternoon, and had seen the most ghastly vision. It seemed that a certain Hufflepuff student – whose name, he believed, was Higgins…

Here the Professor glanced up at the Headmaster, who nodded. Yes, he said, there was a Hufflepuff student named Higgins, a first year.

"In that case," said Professor Gosselin, "I will come right to the point. Miss Higgins does not belong at this school."

The Headmaster laughed bitterly. To hear her tell it, he said, Miss Higgins did not belong anywhere.

But Gosselin was adamant. The student Higgins, he said, must be sent home. If she remained at Hogwarts, she would suffer a hideous fate no later than her third year.

What fate? Well, Professor Gosselin wasn't sure. The crystal, he said, hadn't been clear on that point, though it seemed rather to indicate a death by drowning…

Smiling ever so slightly, the Headmaster said that even if Professor Gosselin were right, dismissing Miss Higgins would not be so easy as he made out. Both of her parents were Muggles, and both ridiculously proud of having a young enchantress among their children. If she were to be expelled…

"Then transfer her to Beauxbatons!" said Professor Gosselin. "Or Durmstrang! Or any of a hundred lesser schools, only do not leave her here!"

And with that, he turned and strode from the office.

For a while, the Headmaster sat, lost in thought. Then he pulled a piece of parchment from his desk and wrote a letter to Mr and Mrs Higgins, explaining that the Divination teacher had had a rather disturbing vision concerning their daughter's death by drowning. If they wished to take the warning seriously and transfer her to some other wizarding school, he would thoroughly understand.

He addressed the letter, gave it to his personal owl, Burke, and sent it off.

The Higginses' reply came three days later, in no uncertain terms. Their daughter, they said, was not going to be removed from the best wizarding school in the English-speaking world because of the half-baked doomsday prophecies of some mad faculty member.

And the Headmaster, who tended to share this opinion of Professor Gosselin, put the letter aside and forgot about the whole affair.

Until the next year.

Because, you see, Professor Gosselin had been right. Miss Higgins – the first-year, Muggle-born Hufflepuff student – would indeed meet her doom in her second year at Hogwarts.

And if she did not, in fact, die by drowning – well, perhaps Professor Gosselin had misread the significance that water was to play in the life – and after-life – of Myrtle Higgins.

_Moaning_ Myrtle Higgins.

And now you know THE REST OF THE STORY.


	2. Treason on Salisbury Plain

It was Michaelmas Eve in the year 1164. Two knights rode across Salisbury Plain, making their way to one of the several castles of their lord, the Baron de Serdaigle.

Like their lord, these knights were not merely warriors, but wizards as well. Unlike their lord, they were also something else.

Traitors.

Indeed, the whole reason they were riding for the castle was because they knew that the Baron would be spending Michaelmas there. They had bribed the châtelain to curse the bedchamber, so that any who slept there would never wake again; now, they were on their way to check his work. For three hours they rode, stopping only once, by the River Kennet, to water their horses.

As the horses drank, the men drank, too – strong wine from hip flasks, fit drink for Norman warriors. And they joked with each other, as they drank, about what they would do after they had divided the Baron's demesnes between them. They had no fear of being overheard; they knew there were no wizards in the area, and they cared little for anything a Muggle could do to them.

Then they remounted their horses, and spurred them forward again, across the river. Within minutes, they had crossed, and they galloped off, never looking back.

They ought to have been more cautious. For they had been overheard, after all – by a young tinker, one Edgar of Pewsey by name, who had been resting behind a tree not a dozen yards away. And Edgar, though he may have been only a Muggle, was a shrewder man than the knights in many ways. He had traveled the roads of the shire long enough to know what castle the knights referred to – and he knew how to find the Baron de Serdaigle, and inform him of his vassals' treachery.

As soon as the knights were gone, he rose from his seat beneath the tree and ran northward, toward the hunting camp where the Baron and his party were spending the Eve. By dusk, he had found it, and had told the Baron all that he had heard; the Baron, outraged, ordered his companions to mount their horses, and they rode hard all night until they came to the castle.

There, they found everything just as Edgar had said. The three conspirators were sleeping on the floor of the great hall, and a sensory spell revealed the curse on the bedchamber. Enraged, the Baron slew the three conspirators then and there, and had their heads mounted on the battlements as a warning to others.

Perhaps it worked. At any rate, no later attempt was made on the Baron's life; he died peacefully in his bed at the age of eighty-four, surrounded by his loyal retainers and kinsmen.

Including Edgar of Pewsey.

For you see, as a token of his gratitude, the Baron made Edgar his vassal lord; he granted him the castle in which the plot had been laid, and gave him his daughter's hand in marriage. Their union was a blessed one, and their children and descendants continued to dwell in the castle until 1733, when one of them tore it down and built a more modern dwelling in its stead. By that time, of course, the story of the traitors and the tinker had been long forgotten – and yet, in a curious way, its memory lived on.

For when the Baron granted Edgar the lordship of the castle, he also changed the castle's name, calling it Castle Ill-Faith in memory of what had transpired there. And Edgar and his descendants, having no proper family name of their own, adopted the name of their dwelling; they became the Lords of Ill-Faith – or, in the Norman tongue, the Sieurs de Mal-Foi.

You know the 18th-Century manor house that stands on the old castle's site, in the Plain of Salisbury, in Wiltshire. And you know the family of wizards – descendants of the Muggle tinker who saved a baron – that still live in that manor, glorying in the noble and ancient name of… Malfoy.

Only now you know THE REST OF THE STORY.


End file.
